


Just a Game

by HipsterGavroche



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, F/M, M/M, a lot of people will die, frick this might be sad, i swear the relationships will start eventually, im really sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:05:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HipsterGavroche/pseuds/HipsterGavroche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Grantaire is reaped, he views it as just another way to die.<br/>When Enjolras is reaped, he does it because he has a bigger martyr complex than Robespierre.</p>
<p>Little do they know that intersecting circles will bring them together in ways they never expected. And maybe, just maybe, a revolution will be sparked. It's not just a game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends <33  
> so I've decided to start writing a hunger games au which may be a very very bad idea. but i hope you enjoy this, please comment and subscribe if you do :) byee  
> -Night

 

                The first thing his eyes can focus on is a green glass bottle on its side. There’s the tiniest bit of liquid left in it, and condensation sticks to it. His neck cracks as he lifts his head from the warped wooden floor. Grantaire rubs his eyes, pressing a palm against the floor behind him. He winces as he feels something slice into his palm.

                "Shit," he says as he sees the broken glass behind him. His palm's bleeding, so he uses the other to hoist himself up. He's alone in the apartment above the pub. He hadn't meant to stay overnight here. He searches in one of the cupboards until he finds a dirty bandage. He wraps it around his hand, trying to stem the bleeding.

                There's movement downstairs, so Grantaire grabs a half empty bottle and makes his way down the stairs. He's a bit unsteady; he must have had an awful lot to drink the night before. Bahorel's downstairs, behind the makeshift bar. It serves more as a lunch counter for Peacekeepers, something Bahorel is constantly ranting about. Grantaire couldn't care less. He's happy for the free booze.

"You okay?" Bahorel says, motioning his head towards Grantaire's hand.

                "Fine," he mumbles.

"Reaping's today."

"Shit." Grantaire buries his head in his good palm, rubbing at his face as though it will make the pain in his head go away. "Two more years."

                "How many tesserae?"

                "Only one. I can live off that."

                "And mooch the rest off of me."

                Grantaire takes a swig of the bottle as if in response. He doesn't bother changing before giving a quick goodbye to Bahorel and leaving the pub. It’s on the edge of the town center, somewhere between the rich merchant’s shops and the fields. So it doesn’t take him long to walk to where most of the district is congregated, huddling in between buildings. There are cameras aimed like snipers, and Grantaire bitterly thinks to himself that the Capitol probably hates seeing District 11. Everyone’s tried to dress up, but there are children here without shirts and shoes. Their ribs show, and god forbid anyone in the Capitol sees a starving child.

                Grantaire’s forced into the census line, where they prick his finger and write down his name. He apathetically lets them. It’s earlier than he wants to be awake, and his brain still feels sluggish and painful if he happens to look into the sun. He heads to his age group, near the front. Only the 18 year olds are in front of him, hoping their last year with the fear of being reaped won’t end with them in an arena.

                He decides not to listen to Guadalupe Arkling as she introduces herself and enthuses about the "exciting games." He catches eye contact with Bahorel on the stage behind her. He's on display, as though winning the games has brought him happiness and glory.

                The crowd goes silent as the standard issue Panem propoganda video begins to play. Grantaire wants a drink. Damn this whole fucking deal, he thinks. Two more years, and he won’t have to even pretend to be sober at the reaping. He focuses his eyes on a torn banner, hung on the opposite building, flapping in the wind.

                Guadalupe's speaking, and it takes him a moment to realize she's picking the female tribute.  "The lucky lady is..." She unfolds the piece of paper, holding it dramatically above her head. Sunlight streams through the thin sheet of paper, and maybe if Grantaire were closer he could make out some of the letters on it. Guadalupe smiles broadly. "Marie Petroll!"

                Grantaire sees a dark-skinned girl from his section slowly walking up to the front. He recognizes her, with her plaited hair and long legs; he's pretty sure he fooled around with her once. Did they go to school together? He hears a piercing cry from behind him- her mother. He feels pity, an emotion he's been trying hard to hide. He can't wait to go home and get a drink.

                She asks in her sharp, high voice for volunteers. Silence reigns for a few moments. “Well,” Guadalupe says with a wide grin, “let’s hear some applause for our tribute!” She grabs Marie’s hand and holds it up. Marie allows her to, letting her arm hang weak under Guadalupe’s strong grip. The audience claps uneasily for a few moments, mostly glad it’s not their child on the stage.

                “Time to choose the male tribute!” Guadalupe is walking to the bowl holding male names. Grantaire's breath hitches for a moment. He's got eight entries in: one for each year he’s been entered in and then two for the tesserae from the past two years. His family had gotten by before, but since he's left home he had to get food somehow. But still, that's only eight, and there are a damned lot of names in that jar. It won't be him-

                "Grantaire Olivet!" Guadalupe says with a flourish, and Grantaire's mind goes blank. He knows he's supposed to be doing something, but all he can think is "damn, I was wrong" and "is there booze in the arena?"

                Guadalupe motions pointedly at him from the stage, and he starts shuffling towards the edge of the crowd. Everyone moves out of his way as though he's diseased. He climbs the stairs to the stage and stands by Marie. She's more familiar up close. He nods at her. Her face is streaked with silent tears.

                Bahorel, behind him, lets out a low "damn." Guadalupe wraps an arm around each of their shoulders. "Our two lovely tributes," she says shrilly.               

                Grantaire wonders if his mother is out there, and if she even cares. It doesn't matter. He's going to die. He doesn’t have a bit of hope. When Bahorel won two years ago, it was due to his strength from working in the fields for the first seventeen years of his life, and a bit of luck. He’s the only live victor from District 11. Grantaire hasn’t worked in the fields since he was a child, and he’s sure as fuck that an alcoholic won’t be winning the Games.

                The mayor, a man who’s obviously never set foot in the fields that most of his people spend their entire lives in, begins reading the Treaty of Treason in a low, sober voice. It takes longer than Grantaire’s ever remembered, as he watches the audience cautiously. More eyes are trained on him than he wants there to be, and he knows that includes many Capitol citizens. Once he’s done Guadalupe moves from between them and presses Grantaire and Marie’s hands together. He takes the effort to shake her hand, which she holds out weakly. Grantaire hates himself for thinking it, but she’ll be easy pickings in the arena. She’s already showing so much weakness. She’ll be the first target.

                The anthem of Panem plays, and the tributes are forced to face the audience until the last notes play. Immediately the crowds begin shuffling out, not wanting to face the doomed anymore. Bahorel rests a hand on Grantaire's shoulder. "I never thought I'd be mentoring you," he says weakly.

                Grantaire doesn't know what to say to that. He doesn't know what to say either when Guadalupe tells them that really, this is so exciting, and why don't you introduce yourselves? Grantaire mumbles a greeting to Marie, wishing he knew something to say to her, about their past maybe, but not remembering anything. Bahorel greets her too. She just looks down at her feet and wipes her eyes with her sleeve.   

                The Peacekeepers are already surrounding them, pressing in as to make sure they don’t escape. _Escape to what?_ Grantaire thinks bitterly. They’re led through the Justice Building, drowning in the finery hidden from the public view. “Now, your family can come visit you to say a final goodbye,” Guadalupe says perkily as she leads Grantaire and Marie into separate rooms.  

                Grantaire sits alone on an oversized plush sofa. He can hear Marie crying with her family in the room over. For a moment he wonders about his mother, but the thought disappears.  He stares at a pattern on the wall that looks an awful lot like the label on the wine he likes. Damn, he’s already having withdrawals. The Peacekeepers open the door after a few more minutes, and Guadalupe enters.

                “Now, dear, it’s time to head to the trains. Oh, I’m just so excited for you two!” she blabbers. “Oh, and you each get a token that you can wear into the Games to remind you of home. Is there anything you’d like to bring?”

                "How about a bottle of whiskey?"

                Guadalupe stops, spins on her heel, and glares at him. "You're 17."

                "So?" Grantaire mutters.

                "I don't need another drunken tribute on my hands. You look unhealthy enough as it is. We'll have to do something about...that," she says, gesturing at him.

                Grantaire scowls and follows her down the hallway. He's still not quite sure he's processed this; it feels as though there's an alternative universe where he went home and got smashed. Instead he's here, being led through an underground tunnel linking the Justice Building and the train station until he’s facing a shiny steel train.

                Bahorel’s leading Marie in from the other side, and there’s a horde of reporters blocking the train. Bahorel and Guadalupe meet up and he begins pushing his way through the crowd. Grantaire tries not to look too scared. Not that it will matter anyway. They lead the two tributes to the door of the train, where they are bombarded with flashes of cameras, until the doors close and cut them off from the world they’ve known.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pov change!!! hope you all enjoy. the pov will probably switch back and forth for a while, at least until the games start. please comment and subscribe :)

"-forcibly /withholding/ food and-"

"Enjolras," Combeferre firmly interjects.

"-/and/ supplies to-" Enjolras continues as though he hadn't heard.

"Enjolras," Ferre says louder. He looks slightly sick.

"What?" Enjolras says irritably.

"It's time for the reaping."

Enjolras goes quiet. “Alright then. Let's go."

Combeferre and Courfeyrac rise, quickly sobered by the upcoming ceremony. They leave the Musain, giving their best wishes to the cafe workers who are locking up for the afternoon. Something about the reaping makes everyone want to exchange pleasantries.

Ferre splits up from Courf and Enjolras, making his way to the stage. They take their place among the other 17-year-olds. They're next to a group of beefed up Careers. "At least we don't have to worry about being reaped," Courf mutters.

Enjolras nods quietly, although it doesn't entirely leave him relaxed. These tributes won't want to volunteer until next year. When Ferre was reaped last year, no one volunteered for him.

More people are celebrating than should be on this somber event. Agents run around, taking numbers for bets. Banners hang from the buildings. And Versailles Porcher emerges from the Justice Building, dressed entirely in gold and silver. Enjolras fumes silently. He knows better than to speak out at the reaping.

Versailles introduces herself and the past victors. As the most recent, Ferre gets a heaping amount of praise. He looks like he might throw up.

The propaganda video begins playing, and Enjolras finds it harder to stay quiet. This is such bullshit, and-

"Enj," Courf says quietly, carefully, "you're grinding your teeth pretty damn hard."

"Sorry," Enjolras mutters. Versailles climbs onto the stage again, reaching her taloned fingers into the glass bowl holding the female names.

She picks a slip up daintily and prances over to the microphone. "Our lovely female tribute for the 21st Hunger Games is... Callé Belanger!"

The girl is short and slight, but in her defense she sets her face as she ascends to the stage.

“What a pretty little thing! Our District 2 tribute, ladies and gentlemen!” Versailles exclaims. "Now, is there anyone who wants to volunteer as-"

"I volunteer as tribute," a strong voice comes from the crowd. An obvious Career steps forward from Enjolras's age group. A year young, he thinks, but now she's got her chance. Why anyone would /ever/ want that is beyond him.

"Well hello there! Yes, miss, you can go back to the crowd...Come up to the stage! What is your name?" Versailles asks in a ridiculous voice.

"Olympe LaMarche," she says in a firm voice.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, /now/ your District 2 tribute is here! Let's give her a round of applause."

Enjolras lets his arms stay by his side as everyone else complies, some whoops and hollers coming from those who had placed bets. He sees Courf look at him out of the corner of his eye. "I'm not /actively/ rebelling," he mutters.

"Now, time for our lucky male tribute!" Versailles says before digging around in the bowl for a ridiculous amount of time. "Here we go," she says as she holds a piece of paper high. "Max Corinna!"

There's a loud scream from somewhere in the far back. Contrary to popular belief, there is a poor class in District 2. Max is part of it, and Enjolras knows that. He sells fish to one of the local shops, and probably supports his whole family.

The young boy solemnly approaches the stage. Enjolras can tell instantly that he's 12, one of the youngest. Several people are still shrieking- his family, his siblings.

"Well!" Versailles exclaims loudly over the noise. "Our other District 2 tribute! Unless there's a volunteer..." she trails off.

No one steps forward. There's a few moments of agonizing silence. His family sobs. None of the careers are volunteering, and this boy will surely die, leaving his family with nothing.

"I volunteer as tribute," Enjolras says in a scarily steady voice. Courf's hand clamps around his wrist.

"What...the...fuck," Courf says slowly, quietly.

Enjolras doesn't have time to respond. He moves away from Courf, who reluctantly releases his grip as Enjolras pushes through the crowd. He stoically joins Olympe and Versailles on the stage. Up close Max's eyes are large and scared. He regrets nothing about this moment except Ferre looking somehow furious and somehow...broken.

"Well, District 2, let's give a round of applause for our...non-Career tribute!"

Enjolras faces the crowd with fire in his eyes as they comply. Max slinks back to his place among the crowd. He blends in, just another face that Enjolras had no obligation towards. But that doesn't matter; he's doing his civic duty. He's already preparing for the arguments Combeferre will use against him. He's known him for so long that another philosophy is engrained in his mind.

He shakes hands with Olympe, who has a similar grip to him. He realizes just how formidable she- and others- will be.

The mayor begins reading the Treaty of Treason, and Enjolras fixes his glare on one of the cameras beyond him. He tries not to look too angry as he hears the words he's been forced to internalize once a year, but there's no Courfeyrac to hold him back now. He hopes he looks angry about being reaped- it might make him look more intimidating.

The ceremony ends and the Peacekeepers close in. Enjolras wonders if his father is one of them. He can't see their faces through their helmets, but if he is there he doesn't tell Enjolras.

He's led through the disgustingly lavish Justice Hall to an enclosed room. He sits tentatively in the armchair closest to the door.

He jumps up like a reflex when he hears the door opening. His mother enters first, her eyes red. She envelops him in a hug. Over her shoulder he sees his father, now changed out of his Peacekeeper uniform.

Enjolras steps back and nods stiffly. "Mother. Father."

"Oh, Enjolras," his mother says quietly. It's drowned out by his father.

"What do you think you're playing at here, Enjolras?"

"It's not a game."

"What?" his father sputters.

"I said, it's not a game. I'm not playing at anything."

"You volunteered for someone you don't even know, you're not a career, you were supposed to be a Peacekeeper!" He fumes.

"I would rather save a family and lose my life than ever serve the Capitol," Enjolras says temperately, carefully.

"Then you can die with the other scum," his father spits, slamming the door as he leaves.

"I'm sorry," his mother murmurs. "I love you."

He doesn't respond as she opens the door and follows his father like a sheep. He watches the door, wondering how the hell his father could be so furious about this, and how his mother could be so apathetic about it all. There's two people he won't miss, he thinks.

The door opens again, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac come inside. Ferre and Enjolras have never been big on hugging, but he pulls him into one anyway. "Dammit, Enj," he mutters.

"What the fuck, Enjolras?" Courfeyrac's eyes are red and puffy, and he looks furious.

"I did what I had to do," Enjolras says cautiously.

"Lose your fucking life for someone you don't even know?" he spits.

"I haven't lost my life yet," Enjolras is quiet.

"Close fucking enough, Enjolras, you'll do something stupid and heroic in the arena and get killed, or, or you'll say something out of line and the Capitol will figure out some way to kill you-"

"I don't want you to have to go through this," Ferre interjects lowly. "It's hard, Enjolras, and I haven't told you the half of it. You're strong, but the Games...the Games can break you."

"And we were so fucking close to starting the revolution, we had plans, and then you go and do this-" Courf continues to ramble aimlessly, his face red. "I've already been through seeing one friend go off to die, Enjolras, I thought it was over. I can't watch you die."

Enjolras buries his face in a hand. "Dammit, I know, but all I could think of was that little boy and his family, and maybe this will be my sacrifice. We all knew I would die young anyway, now maybe I can say something with my death." Enjolras is hurt more than he thought he would be by Ferre and Courf's reactions.

The door is being opened, and Courf locks his arms around Enjolras's neck in a hug. He's hysterical and sniffling. "Don't die," he whispers.

Enjolras reciprocates the hug. "I'll try. Stay strong." He hands Courf off to Ferre, who nods at him. "I'll see you on the train," he says. It's easier when it's not a final goodbye.

A second later, the Peacekeepers come for him. He's led through a large group of paparazzi. They're as disgusting as the Capitol, but he makes an attempt to not look furious. The doors to the train open, and Versailles and Combeferre join him. He says goodbye to the home he never loved.


End file.
